The Way the World Ends
by drama-princess
Summary: So this is how the world ends-- not with a bang, but a whimper. Set during "Passion."


Author's Note: Buffy the Vampire Slayer is property of Mutant Enemy and all else implied. This particular fic has been lying unfinished on my hard drive for some time, and I've finally managed to finish it. Reviews are very much welcome, constructive crit is loved, flames are used to toast marshmallows.   
  
Set during   
  
***  
  
The Way the World Ends  
**_by drama-princess_  
  
*  
  
Giles gets out of his car. Jenny must not be here yet, he thinks absently. Which is good, he supposes. Enough time to clean himself up, to change his tie, tidy up around the house. He finds himself smiling slightly to himself. Everything will be all right after all.   
  
Jenny loves him. Here his mind stops as he halts briefly on the path. Loves him, loves him, loves _him. _He chants it to himself. He's a little ashamed of the joy he finds in it-- he is forty-four and still playing a declaration of love like a nursery rhyme in this head.   
  
Buffy is willing to forgive, generous girl that she is. He knows that at seventeen things are usually neatly lined, a stretch of charcoal defining what is good and what is bad. It's something that he forgot for a few weeks, and he owes Jenny for it. Secrets are secrets, and what's true is what's important. Jenny will tell him about it tonight, her childhood (she must have been a slight, glowing girl with snapping eyes), her mission, how she's been seeing things she's never even known existed. He knows this because he knows and loves her, and wants to hear her say Just like a man loves a woman. He smiles again, and starts walking to the door.   
  
There will be no Watchers here tonight, no gypsies. We are who we chose to be, and he is here, now, in this moment, Rupert Giles. A librarian coming home late at night. His girlfriend will come over.   
  
They'll stare awkwardly at each other for a few minutes, he thinks. Then he'll offer to make a cup of tea, and she'll make one of her old faces at him. He'll laugh, the sound hanging loosely in the tense air, and they will fall down. Sit comfortably side by side on the couch.  
  
They'll take the alcohol out of the cupboard. We're all grownups here, she'll tease him.   
  
There's something on the door, he notices absently.   
  
They'll both start talking at the same time, and he'll wave her on apologetically. She'll laugh a trifle nervously, a sound that won't be quite right from her mouth. He'll stammer, and she'll regain her confidence.   
  
Maybe they'll kiss at the end of the evening.  
  
He looks at the door. There's a rose hanging there, and he feels a sudden rush of anticipation. Jenny must have gotten a ride from someone, then. She's done it before, and-- his train of thought breaks off. He'd a ridiculous man, to stand here and contemplate transportation. Jenny is inside, waiting for him. Her delicate features, her lush dark hair, her laughter and her life. He picks the rose up, raises it to his face.   
  
It smells like her perfume.   
  
He opens the door.  
  
he calls. There's no answer, but that doesn't mean anything. He smiles. He can hear La Boheme playing. It's a beautiful opera. He hangs up his coat.   
  
It's me!   
  
Still no answer, but that's not strange. Once she hid behind a bookcase in the library and jumped out at him, laughing at his ineffectual attempts to react defensively. You could have been a vampire, he'd sulked when she teased him about it. I could have hurt you.   
  
Not when you go around with stacks of books in your hands, she'd answered archly, and leaned forward to kiss him over the spaghetti.   
  
There's a bottle of something-- champagne, it looks like from here, resting in ice. Two wine glasses. He smiles, then frowns slightly. A pale yellow envelope. Does that look familiar?   
  
Upstairs.  
  
He puts the note down. Feels his palms start to sweat. They've only done. . . this . . . (Jenny would laugh) twice before. The first time it was tender and golden and lazy. The second was worried, Jenny holding onto him in silence. Starting to speak, then stopping. He'd kissed her eyelids and she'd finally smiled. But this, he knows, will be different.   
  
He walks up the stairs, smiling to himself. Janna. Why did she pick Jenny? Perhaps he'll ask her. No, she'll tell him. But she is Jenny now. That part is easy.   
  
He turns to the door.   
  
One, two, three, and his eyes rise to meet her. Her eyes are open. Staring. At nothing.   
  
There's a faint crash, a dim rush in his ears, and he runs to the bedside.   
  
  
  
Perhaps she only fell asleep. Yes, that's it, never mind that he can already smell the death in the air, and her skin has a greyish tint, and that-- no, she's only dead to the world, ha-ha, what a pun. She must be exhausted.   
  
  
  
No-no-no-no-no-no-no-no-no-no.  
  
Jenny, wake up.   
  
Of course she's not dead, that's ridiculous, she's Jenny and Jenny doesn't die, she stands on the sidelines and looks up at him with laughing eyes when the fire goes out and there's soot on her cheek and God, she's cold.   
  
He can hardly breathe. No. Not dead. Sleeping. The limpness is beause she's so tired. She will wake up, any moment now, and laugh at his panic. Ha-ha, England, I fooled you. Surprise! And he'll laugh with relief, and maybe he'll cry a little bit. Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you worry, I love you, I'll never leave you.   
  
They will go to Italy and eat pasta and make love in this bed and drink sherry in teacups because he broke the champagne and the wine glasses and sit in front of the fireplace. He will see the dim glow of the light reflected on her skin.   
  
God, God, God, her wrist is so cold.   
  
They will kiss and argue and-- and-- forgive, and--   
  
and?  
  
He looks down at the odd slump of her neck. A strangled noise sounds in the room. Did that come from his throat?   
  
Very, very gently, he touches Jenny's hair. His fingers tangle in the already brittle strands, where the wisps of dark curls lie propped against the pillow.   
  
He rises.   
  
In his mind, he begins to practice the inevitable telephone calls. He is alone in his house, and his name is Giles. He is not Rupert, not anymore, there is no one to call him that now.   
  
Jenny is dead.   
  
He moves to the telephone. His fingers turns as he dials and his mind chants T.S. Eliot in a sad, slow refrain. He can feel himself start to break inside. Hopefully he can hold up long enough for the police.  
  
nine (this is the way the world ends)  
  
one (this is the way the world ends)  
  
one (this is the way the world ends)  
  
not with a bang but a whimper.  
  



End file.
